Summary-: as oscar looks for a escape he somehow ends up right next to the thing he was trying to escape from.
Chapter 5- "I love u, its ruining my life"
Oscar was practically vibrating with the need to be anywhere else.
When his manager had mentioned the conservation feature, it felt like a lifeline. Three days in the bush. No "egg-shell" family breakfasts, no accidental run-ins at the bakery, and no sight of that silver ring reflecting the Australian sun. Just him, a camera crew, and the quiet of the sanctuary. It was supposed to be his sanctuary, too.
He was standing by the equipment truck, squinting against the glare, when a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows of the main office.
The world didn't just stop; it felt like it went into a violent reverse.
Lia was carrying a professional camera bag and a leather-bound notebook. She looked official. She looked professional. She looked like she was about to ruin his life.
"Oscar," she said, walking up to him. She looked like she hadn't slept muchāthere was a slight puffiness to her eyes that he only knew because heād spent years memorizing every version of her face. "I, uh... I hope this isn't too awkward. The sanctuary assigned me to the piece weeks ago. Iām actually really excited to be working with you on this. Itās a huge story."
Oscar felt the "Iceboy" mask snap into place, though it felt more like a brittle shield than a helmet this time. He gave a sharp, neutral nod.
"Work is work," he said, his voice a flat, practiced monotone. "Itās a good cause."
"Right. Exactly. Professional," she murmured, more to herself than him.
Before he could respond, one of the cameramen shouted for her. "Lia! Can we check the light on the ridge?"
"Coming!" she called back. She turned quickly, her shoulder brushing against his arm. In the transition, a stray lock of her hair grazed his cheek, and the wind carried a scent that hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
It was the same. Seven years, a degree, a move across the country, a fiancĆ©āand she still smelled like the night theyād spent in his old sedan, parked under the trees near the coast.
For a split second, the sanctuary vanished. He wasn't a Formula 1 driver, and she wasn't a journalist. He was seventeen again, his heart hammering against his ribs, his fingers tangled in that exact same hairāsofter than anything heād ever touchedāas he pulled her closer, terrified and exhilarated by the way she tasted. He remembered the heat of her skin, the way sheād sighed his name into the dark, and the absolute certainty that he would never need anything else.
He felt the familiar pull in his chest, a magnetic ghost-limb reaching out for her.
"Whoah," he hissed under his breath, snapping his eyes shut and gripping the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turned white. "No. Oh, hell no. We are not going there."
He forced himself to open his eyes and stare at the red dirt beneath his boots.
He was a professional. He was one of the twenty best drivers in the world. He could handle a high-speed crash at 300kph; he could handle a three-day interview with the only person who had ever truly broken him.
But as he watched her walk away, his mind traitorously replaying the silk-soft texture of her hair against his skin, Oscar realized he was in for the longest seventy-two hours of his life.
"Focus, Piastri," he whispered, his jaw tight. "It's just a job."
But the vanilla and eucalyptus lingered in the air, a sweet, suffocating reminder that some targets move, but they never truly get away. The small clip-on microphone felt like a brand on Oscar's chest. They were sitting in a quiet patch of the sanctuary, the red dust of the Outback swirling around their boots. Lia was tucked behind a small monitor, her face a mask of professional neutrality that looked entirely too much like his own.
"Okay, just for interview purposes, act like you don't know me," she said, her voice steady but clipped. "Act like you wouldn't expect me to already know this information about you."
Oscar gave a sharp, clinical nod. "Understood."
"Name and occupation for the record?"
"Oscar Piastri. I drive for McLaren in Formula 1."
The questions started off easyālow-stakes lobs he could hit in his sleep. He talked about the technical pressure of the MCL38, the pride of representing Australia on a global stage, and how much he valued the silence of home. He was doing well. He was composed. He was the Iceboy.
Then Lia flipped a card. Her expression didn't just change; it disintegrated. She looked at the script as if it were written in blood rather then pen.
"Must have been hard," she started, her voice dropping an octave, "to move away when you were so young. Only seventeen."
The silence that followed was heavy. Oscar felt the ghost of his seventeen-year-old self sitting right there between them on the dirt. He took a slow breath, staring at a point just past her shoulder.
"Yeah, of course. Itās hard to leave behind your family and friends," he said, his voice hardening. "Everyone you care about, really. But itās a sacrifice you have to make. If you want to get ahead in life, you need to pick your priorities. And thatās what I did."
He saw her flinchāa tiny, microscopic twitch of her jaw. She didn't like that answer. It was too cold, too final. But she was a professional; she finished the script, thanked the crew, and signaled for the lunch break.
The second the red "Recording" light went dark and the mics were unclipped, the atmosphere shifted from sterile to suffocating.
"I think you look at it wrong," Lia said suddenly.
Oscar stopped mid-stride, turning back to her. "Huh?"
She bit her lip, looking at the ground before meeting his eyes with a flash of that old, stubborn fire he remembered. "Well, yeah. Everyone needs to have their priorities straight, but priorities can coexist. You can do half-and-half. You can make room. Choosing one thing doesnāt always mean abandoning another."
Oscar stood there for a beat, then gestured toward a picnic table away from the crew. "Thatās a good point," he said as they grabbed their burritos and drinks. "But Iāve always thought of it differently."
"How so?" she asked, sitting across from him. The distance between them was only three feet, but it felt like three thousand miles.
"Well, think of it this way," Oscar said, the words tumbling out before he could filter them. "I couldāve stayed in Australia and made a decent career just here. Like Logan."
He mentally cursed. Why did he bring up Logan? He saw Liaās hand tighten around her drink, but he couldn't stop now.
"That wouldāve meant balance, sure. But it would tie me down. It doesnāt pay as well, itās not as valued... youāre not embedded in history, you know? If I want to quitāwhich Iāll have to eventually, because racers die young anywayāIād have to do all that stupid brand-deal influencer shit just to survive."
He leaned forward, his intensity breaking through the mask. "But right now? Even without a championship, the investments Iāve made will have me and my family set for life. So when Iām readyāwhen Iāve finally found my peopleāIām going to leave the circus. Iām going to come back here. I just... I hate doing things halfway, Lia. I couldn't give you, or anyone, a 'half' version of me while I was chasing that."
Lia looked stunned. She sat back, the burrito forgotten in her hand, her brown eyes wide as she processed the sheer, calculated weight of his life.
"Shit," she whispered, a startled laugh breaking through her shock. "That... that puts it into perspective."
Oscar felt a rare, genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth. For a split second, the tension evaporated. He wasn't the F1 star and she wasn't the bride-to-be; they were just two kids on the hood of a car again, trading secrets over burgers.
"I guess you just needed to make it before you committed," she said softly, her gaze dropping to her lap.
Oscar nodded, the silence between them turning from awkward to aching. "Yeah," he whispered. "I just didn't realize how much the world would change while I was gone."
He looked at her hand, the silver ring glinting in the afternoon light, and the hunger heād felt a moment ago vanished completely. He had made it. He was set for life. But as he looked at Lia, he realized heād built a throne in a kingdom where he was now a stranger.
It happened somewhere between the burrito wrappers and the second location shoot near the kangaroo enclosures.
The heavy, suffocating "Interview Mode" Oscar had been wearing like a lead suit finally started to crack. It wasn't a big, dramatic momentāno grand apologies or cinematic rainstorms. It was just the way Lia tripped over a hidden tree root while trying to adjust her camera lens, and the way Oscarās hand shot out to catch her elbow before his brain could give him permission to touch her.
"Easy, klutz," he muttered, his voice dropping the formal F1-press-conference tone for the first time in years.
Lia steadied herself, her face flushing as she looked up at him. "The ground moved, Piastri. Don't be a dick."
The "Piastri" did it. It wasn't Oscar. It wasn't Mr. Piastri. It was the way she used to bark his name when heād beat her at Mario Kart or steal a fry off her plate.
He felt a genuine, lopsided grin tugging at his lips. "The ground moved? Thatās your excuse? Youāre a wildlife journalist, Lia. Youāre supposed to be one with nature, not losing a fight to a stationary gum tree."
"Iām one with the animals, not the geology," she shot back, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hadn't been there at the beach. She shouldered her camera bag, bumping his arm playfully as she walked past. "And for the record, I was checking the aperture. Itās called being a professional. You should try it sometime."
"Ouch. Cracks in the ice," Oscar joked, falling into step beside her.
And just like that, the air changed.
The next three hours didn't feel like work. It felt like a heist. They were supposed to be filming "serious conservation content," but they spent half the time descending into the kind of rapid-fire banter that only comes from knowing someoneās rhythm for a decade.
When a curious emu started trying to eat the microphone cover, Lia didn't panic; she just started narrating the birdās inner monologue in a posh British accent, making Oscar laugh so hard he had to turn away from the camera to keep his "serious driver" face intact.
"Stop it," he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "The crew thinks Iām a professional, Lia. Youāre ruining the brand."
"The brand is boring," she teased, leaning against a fence post while the cameraman changed batteries. "The world needs to know that the great Oscar Piastri is actually terrified of a flightless bird."
"I am not terrified. Iām respecting its personal space. Thereās a difference."
"You backed away three feet, Osc."
The nickname slipped out naturally this time, and for the first time, it didn't hurt. It felt like a warm blanket. Oscar didn't pull away. He didn't think about Abu Dhabi or the championship or the fact that Logan was probably at home waiting for her.
They sat down on the back of the equipment truck, their legs swinging over the edge. For a long time, they just watched the sun start its slow, golden descent toward the horizon. The silence wasn't thick anymore; it was comfortable. It was the kind of silence you can only share with someone who knows exactly what youāre thinking without you having to say a word.
"You haven't changed that much," Lia said softly, staring at the red dust on her boots. "You're still just as stubborn. Still obsessed with doing everything perfectly."
Oscar looked at her profileāthe way her hair was escaping her ponytail, the way her gold jewelry caught the fading light. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," she said, finally turning to look at him. "Itās why youāre where you are. I just... I forgot how easy it was to talk to you."
"Me too," Oscar admitted.
He reached down, picking up a stray pebble and tossing it into the dirt. "I spent a long time thinking Iād forgotten how to be this version of myself. The one who isn't calculating tire wear or looking at a telemetry screen. I thought I'd traded him in for a faster model."
Lia laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Oscarās chest feel tight for a completely different reason. "Heās still in there. Heās just a bit more expensive now."
"Shut up," he chuckled, nudging her shoulder with his.
She nudged him back, her head tilting to rest near his shoulder for just a heartbeat before she caught herself. The gravity between them was shifting, pulling them back into an orbit they hadn't occupied since they were seventeen.
For that afternoon, the seven-year gap didn't exist. The betrayal in the backyard, the drunk party, the silver ringāit all felt like a movie theyād watched a long time ago. They talked about his sisters, about her job at the sanctuary, about the way the Outback smelled after it rained.
They were back. Not as the F1 star and the journalist, but as Oscar and Lia.
But as the crew started packing up and the light began to fail, Oscar felt the world starting to press back in. He looked down and saw the silver ring on Liaās finger, glinting like a warning light in the twilight.
The flow was back, the banter was perfect, and the comfort was home. But as Oscar stood up to help her with her bags, a cold realization settled in his gut:
Being "the old them" was the most dangerous thing they could possibly be.
The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky stained with deep purples and bruised oranges. The crew was already dragging logs toward a cleared patch of dirt near the main cabin.
"The team's doing a bonfire," Lia said, brushing the dust off her skirt. She wouldn't look him in the eye now that the professional part of the day was over. The warmth from an hour ago was cooling faster than the desert air. "They always do it on the night of a remote set. You should come."
Oscar leaned against the equipment truck, his arms crossed over his chest. "Will you be there?"
"For a bit," she said, her voice sounding practiced. "But I have to head home after. Logan hates sleeping alone."
The words hit Oscar like a physical strike to the solar plexus. He felt his jaw tighten, his internal monologue screaming at him to keep his face still. Logan hates sleeping alone. He didn't need that image. He didn't need to know about their domestic routines or the way they drifted off in a bed that wasn't his. Every time he felt like he was gaining ground, she threw a wall up made of Loganās name.
"Well," Oscar said, his voice dropping into that clipped, neutral tone he used for stewards' hearings. "I guess Iāll come. Better than rotting in my room alone."
Lia gave a sharp, jerky nod. "Yeah. You shouldnāt rot. Like Logan probably is. Heās been waiting for me to get back for hours."
Oscar stared at her. It hit him then, like a pile of bricks falling from a height. She wasn't just talking; she was using Loganās name as a weapon, a leash, a visible line in the sand. Every time the air between them got too easyātoo much like the old daysāsheād drop the name to remind him, and herself, exactly who she belonged to.
It pissed him off. The manipulation of the moment, the forced distanceāit made the blood in his veins feel like liquid nitrogen.
"Yeah, of course. That makes sense," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Iāll go get ready then. Change out of the McLaren orange. God forbid I look like Iām working."
"Iāll change out of the ugly wildlife uniform," she replied, her voice tight.
She turned to walk away when a rustle in the scrub caught them both off guard. A frilled-neck lizard shot out from the shadows, skittering straight over the tops of her boots.
"Ah!" Lia gasped. She wasn't scaredāshe was an Aussie, sheād handled deadlier things than a confused lizardābut the sudden movement in the dark caught her off balance. She stumbled, her weight shifting toward the uneven ground.
Oscar didn't even think. He moved before she could hit the dirt, his hands catching her firmly by the waist to steady her. It was a simple, plain, polite gesture. Nothing to it.
For a second, the world went quiet. His hands were warm through the thin fabric of her top, and he could feel the frantic beat of her heart under his palms. She was so close he could see the gold flecks in her eyes, reflected in the rising moonlight.
Then, as if his touch were made of live electricity, she almost pushed him off. She didn't just step back; she recoiled, her hands flying up to create space between them.
"Iām fine," she snapped, her voice high and breathless. "I'm fine. I'll see you at the fire."
She didn't wait for a response. She practically bolted toward the office, leaving Oscar standing alone in the red dust. He looked down at his hands, still feeling the lingering heat of her waist, and let out a long, jagged breath.
She was running. She was using Logan as a shield and the lizard as an excuse, but she was running. And for the first time since heād landed in Melbourne, Oscar realized he wasn't the only one who was terrified of what happened when the target stopped moving.
A/n-: im back!! Did u miss this series??